


How to Win Over the Best Friend Through the Art of Gift Giving

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: Indulgence [13]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday Presents, Clint Needs a Hug, M/M, Moving In Together, Protectiveness, Shovel Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint thinks he should buy his boyfriend's best friend a birthday present. Maybe then the guy will stop looking at him like he expects Clint to break Phil's heart at any moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Win Over the Best Friend Through the Art of Gift Giving

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me as an anonymous prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _C/C, shopping for a birthday present for Nick Fury?_
> 
>  
> 
> I hope they like it!

“Why am I holding a sweater and wondering if Nick would like it?”

 

Clint shrugged, eyeing the black knit and reaching out to tug the hem, which caused the hanger to rock in Phil’s fingers.

 

“Clint.”

 

“He’s your best friend.” Clint knew that wasn’t enough of an explanation, but he didn’t know how to say the rest.

 

“Yes.”

 

“His birthday’s coming up.”

 

“Okay.” Phil didn’t say anything more, but Clint didn’t elaborate. How do you tell your boyfriend that his best friend hates you, hates that you’re fucking up his friend’s life, and generally thinks you’re going to break his heart?

 

But Phil was better at the waiting it out game, and Clint could only dart nervous glances at the sweater and the department store exits for so long. “And we should get him something nice.”

 

“I always get him a bottle of Laphroaig 25. It’s tradition. You don’t have to get him anything.”

 

“I know.” He fiddled with the sleeve of the sweater, then took it and put back on the rack with a sigh. He _did_ know the tradition. Every year Phil would present Fury with the stupidly expensive scotch, they’d shoot the shit for however long it took them to go through one glass each, then they’d get back to work. “But I should still get him something,” he mumbled.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it’s his _birthday_.” When Phil quietly and patiently said nothing in response, Clint sighed in resignation. “Because it’s his birthday and you’re his best friend and I’m your boyfriend and that’s what people _do_ , right? Try to win over their boyfriend’s friends who hate them?”

 

“Marcus doesn’t hate you.” He said it so evenly, so reasonably, that Clint could only stare at him flatly. “No, hey,” Phil amended, his voice going soft and his hand reaching to tug Clint’s arms loose from their crossed position over his chest. “Why do you think he hates you?”

 

“He didn’t used to,” Clint admitted as he dropped his arms and let Phil lace their fingers. He didn’t grip or squeeze in return, though. “But then I fucked you and you decided to keep me for whatever reason and do you have any idea how terrifying the shovel talk is when it comes from the head of the world’s most elite spy and threat-neutralization organization? Only he never actually _says_ anything, so it’s more like a shovel _stare_ and that’s way fucking worse.”

 

“Okay, one,” Phil said, and Clint could hear the laugh caught in his throat, the bastard, “that’s not how I remember the start of our relationship happening. And two, what the hell is a shovel talk?”

 

Clint scoffed. “It’s the talk you get from your significant other’s friends or family threatening you if you hurt them. You know. ‘I have a .45 and a shovel. I doubt anyone would miss you.’ It’s from a movie.” Only Fury’s revenge would be way more sophisticated and merciless than a clean execution, and the fucker didn’t even have to open his mouth to make that clear.

 

Phil actually laughed for real at that, and took Clint’s other hand as well, spreading their arms and stepping into Clint’s space. “He’s all bark,” he assured.

 

“Silent bark,” Clint grumbled, but he relaxed a little and swayed towards Phil’s heat. “But he’s got the teeth to back it up.”

 

“Then I guess you better not ever break my heart.”

 

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

 

“Good. Me neither.”

 

They met in the middle for a kiss, which was oddly meaningful and way more passionate than was appropriate for the men’s department of Macy’s on a Saturday afternoon. Birthdays and gifts and protective, one-eyed assholes were kind of forgotten about after that.

 

 

_________

 

 

“What’s this?” Fury eyed the present Phil had set on his desk next to the traditional bottle of alcohol.

 

“It’s from Clint.”

 

“Oh, is it?” Neither man so much as glanced at the ceiling, but Clint wasn’t about to think for a second they didn’t both know he was there. The fact that he hadn’t been blocked meant that Fury had at least half-expected him to try, and that he was allowing the intrusion. “And how’s that asshole treating you?”

 

“He’s great and you know it. So maybe you could stop giving him what he’s taken to calling ‘the shovel stare.’”

 

Fury laughed, delighted, and reached for the gift, and Clint tried not to flinch at the rare sound. He laughed again, roaring with it, when the eighteen inch parrot prop was revealed, complete with clips for attachment to the wearer’s shoulder.

 

Phil, meanwhile, poured the scotch, unfazed.

 

That was good enough for Clint. He silently crept away, and left them to it.

 

 

_________

 

 

“Did you remember to ask for paper plates?” Clint asked as he wrestled a pillowcase onto a particularly fluffy and stubborn pillow.

 

“Yes. And plastic cutlery. There.” Phil stood back in obvious satisfaction, admiring his handiwork at making the bed to his own exacting standards. “Have you seen the box labeled ‘Phil, bedroom?’”

 

“I dunno. I think maybe I left it in the kitchen?”

 

“Why would you . . . You know what, never mind. Here, give me that.”

 

Clint handed the pillow over and got to work on the next one. It went much more smoothly, as Clint preferred flatter, less stuffed support under his head. He tossed it in the general direction of his side of the bed, and Phil tutted and neatly put it in place. Clint grinned. “I hope you don’t expect me to help make the bed every morning. I don’t give a fuck about messy sheets.”

 

Phil did, though, he knew. He loved sliding into a made bed at the end of a long day. But now that they were trying this living together thing, Clint had to set some ground rules. Dishes, sure. He’d help with those (once they were unpacked), especially since there was a dishwasher in the kitchen. But making the bed _every day?_ Nope. Not even a little bit.

 

(Okay, maybe sometimes, but only because Phil liked it so much.)

 

“All I ask is that dirty clothes go in the hamper, not on the floor,” Phil said with a smile.

 

“Fuck, boss, that’s easy. Just put the hamper actually in the bedroom. I can toss the clothes right in.” The only reason his clothes had ever ended up on the floor at Phil’s old place was because Phil had kept the hamper in his closet like a weirdo. And the reason Clint’s bedroom floor had always been a mess had simply been that he hadn’t _owned_ a hamper.

 

“I think that’s a compromise I can live with.”

 

Someone knocked on their new front door, and Phil went to answer it. Clint listened with half an ear as Phil accepted and paid for the food delivery, and smiled like a complete sap as he just stared at their perfectly made bed. _Their bed_.

 

“You gonna come eat or what?”

 

Clint went, kissed Phil over the takeout boxes, swore at the TV when it didn’t turn on, and got a mild shock when he tried to fix it. Then he put the leftovers away while Phil took out the trash, and carried Phil’s precious “bedroom” box to the appropriate room.

 

He saw it right away, of course, the green feathered cap resting on his pillow. He set the box down and picked up the hat, grinning when he saw the brown tights underneath. “Acceptance?” he asked, laughing, when Phil entered the room.

 

Phil took one look and obviously put two and two together to get Fury, just as Clint had. “Approval,” he countered.

 

Clint perched the hat on his head and started plotting for Christmas. “Game on.”

 

 

 

 

 

—end—

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The tradition of Phil giving Nick a bottle of expensive alcohol every year was not originally mine. I know I've read a story that also has it, and while I didn't consciously think of it as I wrote, I realized as I was editing that I'd seen it before. Unfortunately, I don't remember where I read it, but credit and thanks go to the author of that fic. If anyone knows which it is, please tell me, and I will give proper credit!


End file.
